


Involuntary Movements

by lizcommotion



Category: The Good Wife (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Disability, Physical Disability, Seizures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 13:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12133956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizcommotion/pseuds/lizcommotion
Summary: Louis Canning realizes he has to do the Thing again: explain his tardive dyskenesia in court. Again.He hates it, but he tells himself that it's better than the alternative. He really doesn't want to explain how he got tardive dyskenesia, or ask for any real accommodations. The other lawyers will just eat him alive.[TW for internalized ableism]





	Involuntary Movements

**Author's Note:**

> This work is semi own voices, in that I have disabilities and experience with some of the diagnoses discussed in this fic. Apologies for any inaccuracies, I wrote this during painsomnia and initially intended it as a drabble. I tried to fact check as much as I could. If you notice any glaring inaccuracies, please let me know and I'll do my best to correct them.
> 
> Also, a note: it is my personal belief that just because medications can give you bad side effects doesn't mean you shouldn't consider taking them. It's just a calculated risk of if the potential side effects are worse than your current symptoms, etc. Please no pharma bashing or "I cured my X with meditation, you can too" in the comments.

"All rise."

Louis Canning stood as the judge entered the courtroom. He had perfected the art of looking at ease even when his world was tumbling around him. It was an old trick by now, so it should have been easy. Yet there was a gnawing sense of unease in his gut.

This should be an easy settlement. The judge was the liberal one, Abernathy, which was good for his case. He tried to focus on the particulars of his opening argument, but it was difficult to concentrate. The vague feeling of anxiety in the pit of his stomach was not because he was going up against Alicia Florrick in court again. He was used to her tricks by now, and the feeling was too intense. Also, though he wanted to ignore it there were definitely the telltale signs of a visual aura that meant he needed to do the Thing again.

"This court is now in session."

He hated doing the Thing.

"Yes, Your Honor. Before we begin --"

"Objection, Your Honor," Alicia interrupted.

Louis paused to collect his thoughts. This would be so much easier if he could just give Alicia a basic lesson in medical accommodations. She was still a nice enough person that she would probably ask for a recess on his behalf. But her law firm would ask questions, and pretty soon everyone would be poaching his clients. 

Everyone was staring at him. He was supposed to be talking. This is why seizures were the worst.

At least he'd managed never to have one in court, because that would be the last day he actually practiced law in Cook County courts. If he was lucky, he'd find a job teaching as an adjunct or editing some law review somewhere. That meant he had to do the Thing, and he had to do it now.

"Your Honor, you may notice these small involuntary movements. These are from a condition I have called tardive dyskenesia."

While Alicia objected, Louis collected himself long enough to piece together his court strategy. He would ask for a recess, which would get Kalinda investigating, and then they would realize that he had enough for a settlement. Then the real work of negotiating a figure could begin.

Twenty minutes later and his recess had been granted. The grounds were perfectly justified but Alicia still came storming up to him after court demanding to know if he was proud of himself. Apparently her client was innocent, or he was hypocritical for words he wasn't full processing. He did not have time for this today. 

"Excuse me," he finally said brusquely, and stalked off to the single stall bathroom in the basement. As the courthouse was a historic building, no one had wanted to ruin the historic facade by adding a wheelchair ramp to the front door. The most accessible bathroom was thus out of the way, and usually empty except for the times he was fairly certain ADAs were using it for a quickie. Today it was blessedly empty and free of used condoms.

Louis Canning went in, locked the door, and waited until the seizure passed. It was what his neurologist called a partial seizure, which unfortunately meant he was aware of every agonizing moment when he wasn't in control of what his body was doing. He hated losing control, the feeling of vulnerability. He dreaded the day when it finally caught him unawares, or when the auras didn't give him enough time to get somewhere private. Controlling where the seizure happened was the only thing that made it bearable, and his wife kept asking if he wanted a discreet aide or a seizure alert dog or something. As though he wanted another reason for people to stare at him. She kept saying that if he didn't want people to watch him seize, he should have a better system. He didn't disagree, he just didn't want to have to deal with it at all.

Ignoring it, unfortunately, had not made any of his problems go away. Nor had a positive attitude or yoga or the various diets his mother-in-law kept recommending. He preferred burying himself in the law, and pursuing a sizeable paycheck. it was more fun than thinking about the ramifications of his body's steady betrayal.

After what felt like ages but Louis knew from experience was more likely to be only a minute or so, he picked himself up off the bathroom floor and checked his phone. No new messages. Good. His wife wouldn't have to know he'd had a seizure today, and they could delay the Fido the Seizure Dog conversation. She would probably win eventually, but he didn't want to hasten it by giving her extra ammunition.

He always managed to forget how tiring seizures were. He examined himself in the mirror. His hair was unruffled but he looked pale. It could just be fatigue, but he worried someone would notice and start asking the right questions. 

He was splashing water over his face when his phone rang. Ah well, no time for self care when Kalinda was calling.

"What do you have, Canning?" she said.

He always appreciated her directness.

"You're the investigator," Canning said. He winced as he watched his mouth twitch in the mirror, and looked away. The tardive dyskenesia always brought back unpleasant memories, but it did have its uses.

He had been sure that Kalinda, of all people, would see through him. She was a good investigator. Surely she would realize that he didn't need a driver for involuntary facial movements. Surely she would realize that tardive dyskenesia is usually caused as a side effect of medication for something else. Surely she would ask questions, and wonder.

For months after their first encounter he'd been waiting for some kind of envelope, some kind of demand. Inform your clients about your seizures or else...we'll say it's actually for schizophrenia. We'll report you to the Bar Association for some minor inadequacy and eventually disbarment. Or perhaps she would go directly to her employers, and they would mention it in court. He'd been jumping at shadows for months, waiting for some disciplinary complaint that he had...what? Somehow broken some rule by not disclosing his seizures and provided inadequate representation.

It never came. Sometimes he wondered if Kalinda had found out, but decided it was beneath her to use the information. He wondered if he hoped that was true or not. He didn't want her pity.

Sometimes he just wanted to walk into court and shout what had happened. Of course, his non-disclosure agreement from the settlement with the doctor who had initially misdiagnosed him prevented some of that. The money that had allowed him to go to law school in the first place, back when he thought he'd be crusading against Big Pharma and ADA violations. Not doing the Thing so he could go have a partial seizure in peace in the bathroom.

The truth was, it was getting worse. He'd had a stable anti-seizure regimen for ages, but the meds started eating away at his kidney function and now everything was spinning out of control while they readjusted everything. Dry mouth, weight gain, nausea, the side effects roller coaster on top of the increased seizures was such fun.

It still wasn't as bad as that first time. It was finals week of a rough undergrad semester. He didn't know quite what was happening except he hadn't felt right all day, and some helpful bystander called an ambulance. He thought at least that was good, at least they would know what to do. But his doctor took one look at his upcoming exams and the history of seasonal depression and decided that these were psychogenic seizures. Clearly something to be treated, but their cause must be the anxiety he'd been feeling all day. Maybe it was for attention, maybe his psyche was crying out for help, but the cause was clearly just psychological distress.

He had medication intolerances to so many antidepressants, they decided to try an atypical antipscychotic for his depression and psychogenic seizures. He thought they were wrong, but apparently everyone with psychogenic seizures thought they were wrong and he should just trust the treatment. Acceptance is the first step in healing and all that. There was no mechanism for asking questions. No one even ran an EEG on him, and he didn't know to request one. How naive he'd been back then.

Of course, Louis now knew that he did have a form of seizures and that he was one of the lucky few who got tardive dyskenesia as a side effect from the antipsychotic. Permanently. And the medication hadn't even helped with his depression. 

Nothing now was as bad as back then, when even his doctors thought he was some kind of faker. It was why he hated doing the Thing, using his tardive dyskenesia for sympathy in court and as an excuse, a bargaining chip. He hated those pitying looks, like the first time a doctor had told him that yes, he really did have seizures forever now. Sorry, better learn to deal with it. Also, sorry about that accidental minor neurological impairment. 

He hated it, but what else could he do? Until the day when it was common practice to hire a lawyer who occasionally needed a court recess to go have a seizure in the bathroom, Louis might as well use the world's preconceived notions about disability fakers against them.

Someday, someone would figure it out. He had to believe that or he would lose all faith in humanity.


End file.
